


I'll be gone then, when you must be alone

by Tenors_only_gang



Series: The Dream Apologist Two-Parter [1]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Light Angst, because they talk about tommy, bittersweet end, light comfort for light hurt, mentions of manipulation, not slash theyre just two pretty best friends your honor, uhhhh OH yeah they argue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:02:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28016664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenors_only_gang/pseuds/Tenors_only_gang
Summary: Under the cloak of night, George can finally, properly, give Dream a piece of his mind.(Set during the exile arc, references the exile, El Rapids, and previous arcs)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound
Series: The Dream Apologist Two-Parter [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2064942
Kudos: 54





	I'll be gone then, when you must be alone

_Midnight_ , George’s handheld clock reads, and he sits impatiently, with his feet thrown over the obsidian wall of New L’manburg, as he waits. 

A wall that was supposedly built for him, in his honor, in his defense.

What a pretty fucking lie.

Dream was late, unsurprisingly enough, having spent the day with a teenage criminal in exile, the man’s intentions never fully clear to anyone cursed with mortal life in their ugly little world. It doesn’t matter either way really––intentions are unimportant with how everything stands, in utter chaos, a thousand little skirmishes at once eating at the SMP’s populous from the inside-out.

George knows that Dream doesn’t like things as they currently are––he can see it in Dream’s eyes, on the rare occasion that they’re on display, and in his voice, when he can hear it, and in the way he holds himself. Even at George’s level of passivity, much preferring to spend his days away from such ridiculous conflict, it isn’t hard to observe Dream, read him, pick apart his mannerisms in the way any two long-term best friends can.

Ex best friends, that is, because while George had once felt warmth fill his chest at the sight of the other, laughter coming easy and pleasant memories surfacing, all he feels now is the biting wind of the coming winter.

George can feel himself start to fall asleep, adjusting his position so his back now lays flat against the top of the wall, arms dangling over either edge, and despite the shiver that runs through him in response to the chilling air and the cold surface he closes his eyes. Feels his breathing steady, his heart slow, his colour-correcting goggles slip up his forehead.

So it’s with some annoyance that about an hour later he’s roused from his sleep, with the shattering of an ender pearl against obsidian, the cracking of an armored foot against the top of the wall.

“About time you showed up,” George grumbles, pushing his goggles back over his eyes and squinting up at a figure above him.

Dream’s scoff is audible, and even though his mask covers his face, George can imagine the other man rolling his eyes.

It infuriates him to no end, and he doesn’t bother to sit up as Dream falls into a cross-legged position in front of him.

“I walked Tommy back to his tent.” _Naturally._ “Did you need something, George?”

“I––” George cuts himself off, not really sure of the answer.

Need is a strong word. No one _needs_ closure, especially not George, content with lazing around like a cat, doing as he pleases. No one _needs_ anything but food, water, shelter maybe. 

But George _wants_ everything he was once given and more. He wants the glory of standing beside his friends, staring down at L’Manburg as it is reduced to rubble; wants to spend his days constructing small, pointless, cottages; wants to wear a useless crown while his friends fawn over him endlessly.

He wants his best friend back.

“No,” he eventually mutters, “I suppose not.”

“Hm.” Dream taps his nails against the side of the wall, a barely audible sound. 

Behind his goggles, George takes advantage of his anonymity, watching the other. 

Dream is definitely better prepared for the winter than George is, a dark turtleneck pulled under his hoodie, and thick, baggy pants definitely more protective than the jeans George wears. He doesn’t look confused, per se, but he’s slumped forward in thought, and George can practically hear him thinking.

Dream is far too expressive for a mask, George can’t help but think. It doesn’t work. He emotes with his body, with his voice, vulnerable in a way others aren’t. This is probably the point, sure––the only thing allowing him some control over the heart yearning to be worn on his sleeve, threatening to reveal his true intentions. 

That still doesn’t make it any less stupid.

“Are we gonna sit here all night, or...?” Dream pipes up, and George wishes he had the energy to punch him.

“Take off your mask.”

“What?”

George doesn’t care to take it back, demanding arbitrary favours from Dream a matter of second nature to him.

“You heard me, Dream, take off your mask.”

“No,” Dream giggles, extending the word.

“ _Dream_ , come on!” 

George sits up now, infectious laughter from Dream starting to pull a mischievous smile at the corners of his own mouth. 

This is how it should be.

“George, I said no!”

George stills for a moment, eyeing over Dream’s mask, before lunging at his friend to grab it. 

“George!” Dream yelps, catching George’s wrist, shoving him away as he plucks the goggles from George’s face.

The world loses saturation, and George stands from his seated position to try to grab them from Dream’s hands, only for Dream to hold them over his head, just above reaching distance. 

“You’re such a prick!” George continues to jump for the goggles, the pair now full-body laughing. On a particularly reckless effort, George flings himself towards the hooded man’s arm, only to feel his toes graze the edge of the wall.

George doesn’t need to see Dream’s face to know that his smile falters, as he yanks George back to a safe position, continuing to hold the glasses above his head.

George makes a grabbing hand for the goggles, no longer reaching for them. Dream obliges.

George props them against his forehead, nestling them into his soft hair.

“You’re laughing, but watch, you’re gonna lose a life, and then it won’t be funny. You don’t know what dying feels like, George, not yet.”

The sudden reprimanding in Dream’s tone makes George go quiet, wrinkling his nose in disdain, and he lies down again, his head propped up to look at Dream by cradled hands against the backside of his scalp.

It seems to take a few minutes for Dream to realize that George isn’t going to give him a response. He sighs as he reaches into his hood, the buckle used to fasten his mask coming undone as he returns to his seated position.

“There,” Dream says, “happy?”

George nods.

Dream’s lips are pressed into a scowl, his fingers still tapping a rhythm against the obsidian. He looks pointedly away from George, into the quiet, softly-lit, streets of New L’Manburg.

“Why are you doing this, George?” Dream asks, voice quiet in the windy night.

“Why am _I_ doing this?”

“Yeah. Why are you doing this?”

“We had everything, Dream. You threw that away.”

“What?” Dream asks, agitated, his words slowly gaining momentum, slowly gaining volume, “you left. You and Sapnap, you both left. For _Quackity_ of all people––I didn’t throw anything away!”

“My crown,” George murmurs, “You took my crown, Dream. Why would you do that?”

“You didn’t even want it! I was doing you a favor!”

“...I never said that.”

Dream smacks his knee in frustration.

“You literally did! You said _‘Dream this is boring,’ ‘Dream, don’t get me involved’, ‘Dream, I don’t want to live the the castle,’ ‘oh Dream, I don’t want to be responsible for these stupid wars’_ ,” He rants, all in a poorly replicated pitchier voice and posh accent, “You literally said that! It’s not my fault you––you fucking baby rage, whenever you don’t get your way!”

Dream is yelling now, and George just eyes him, annoyed, not caring to listen through Dream’s carefully laid out arguments. To Dream, everything is a plan, a game of four-dimensional chess, a process of out-thinking the others around him. A conscious effort.

To George, well––it isn’t worth the work, not really. 

“I didn’t want to be king, Dream but I didn’t,” George stalls, “I didn’t want to _not_ be king.”

“Yeah but––see? That doesn’t make any sense! If you knew what you wanted, we wouldn’t even be here right now!”

“I didn’t want to do _king things_ , but what the hell does a king even do here? Why Eret, Dream? Do they do anything I didn’t? Why does Eret get to be your figurehead? Why did you have to dethrone me like that, in front of everyone, and just––and just blame me like that?”

“Obviously it was the right decision, considering you decided to help out a _fucking terrorist_.”

“Bullshit.”

“What?” Dream repeats, with the nerve to sound incredulous.

“You’re with Tommy nearly every day, you don’t give a damn about terrorism if it suits your needs.”

“What? George, are you––are you jealous of _Tommy_? George, that kid,” Dream raves, his hands gesticulating wildly, “is relentless! He doesn’t stop, George, do you know how powerful we could be if he was on our side?”

George locks eyes with Dream, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Your side.”

Dream swallows.

“My side.”

Silence falls between the two again, and George knows it's his turn to speak. He knows that Dream has a point, as he always does, releasing pawn after pawn into the line of fire. Counting every move, in his head, as every opponent he faces sighs, head in hands, preparing for an inevitable defeat. 

George would like to think he’s more than just an opponent, or even worse, a tool to Dream, he really would. Years of friendship, hopefully, are some indication of a better status. Dream’s eyes, at least, aren’t cold. There’s some relief in that––no more blank-faced mask, scheming, frightening outward appearance: right now, Dream is just a man in his early twenties, in an unwashed hoodie, with angry eyes, heated words, composure lost in the dead of the night––who just happens to be graced with the gift of a life unending.

“We could have been that. You, me, and Sapnap. We were that, actually. But apparently we weren’t powerful enough for you.”

“It’s nothing personal, George.” 

“Stop saying my name so much. It doesn’t make your argument any better.”

“I’m not debating you.”

“Whatever.”

“Point is, I’m just protecting you––I did what you wanted, it’s not my fault that you decided to change your mind.”

“It’s not about the stupid crown.”

“So you don’t want it? Make up your fucking mind!”

“It’s because,” George stammers quietly, “it’s because you gave it to me. And now you’re just––you took it away, no problem.”

“I just do what you ask me to do. I always have.” 

_Everyone does_ , George thinks, with a self-directed cringe. Spoiled. He’s spoiled, friends constantly fighting for his affection. He isn’t used to a world in which Dream can’t give him everything he could ever want, in which he and his best friends can’t win a hundred percent of the time.

“It’s not special anymore. It’s just Eret again––you just pass it around. Sapnap told me you don’t care about us anymore. I’m inclined to believe him.”

Dream swallows again. Opens his mouth to speak, and George cuts him off.

“It’s still my turn to talk, Dream. It’s not just a crown––Eret can wear a stupid crown, I don’t care. It’s you, your–– your loyalty, I dunno. It’s been so long since we’ve had peace on the SMP. But it’s always been us, the three of us. No matter what––just us, winners’ POV, through thin and thick. But we’re not useful to you anymore, are we? We’re not Tommy’s discs. We’re not always the most involved, we’re not weapons to be flaunted, so we’re not of use to you. And you threw us away.”

“That’s literally not it at all.”

“That’s how it feels.”

“Okay, well I’m sorry you feel that way, but it’s not the truth. You’re literally being such a baby right now.”

“I just want to know why you’re doing this.”

“Okay–– but the fact that you don’t understand is exactly why you don’t deserve to be king in the first place.”

 _Do you even know how fucking awful that is?_ , George wants to ask, but the words are stuck in his throat. They always are, when Dream’s words are laced with venom, trying to cut to the most harmful things that he could say to shut George up. When Dream gets like this it’s best to tune out, ignore claims based in years of friendship. He remembers the first time he’d asked Dream to lift his mask, and the ridiculing he’d received for hours to follow.

It was his turn to swallow uncomfortably.

“When I was king, I knew that none of it would ever touch me. The war––nothing. All I had to do was serve you, be loyal, and you would do the same for me. Even before that, we stuck together. And now,” George leans forward, sitting up to look at Dream at matched eyeline, “you threatened to kill me the other day. Take one of my lives, one of Sapnap’s, one of Karl’s, one of Quackity’s. I don’t know what we did to deserve that from you.”

“You’re fucking terrorists! Everyone in El Rapids––oh my God! Why is this so hard for you to wrap your head around!”

“That’s not the point! That’s not the point, Dream, I think you know that!”

“I literally have no fucking idea what you’re talking about!”

“The walls,” George says, sliding a delicate finger over the shiny obsidian between them, “they’re not for me. They’re for you. I never wanted this.”

“Oh, so you just suddenly grew a conscience?”

“No! I couldn’t care less about L’Manburg, Manburg, New L’Manburg, Mexican L’Manburg, I don’t care! What I do care about is you, and me, and Sapnap.”

 _God_ , does George wish he’d brought along Sapnap. In the heat of the moment he stole away, he thought it a bad idea, knowing that Sapnap would only escalate whatever argument he and Dream were bound to have, but now he needs the younger’s voice more than ever. His own was beginning to crack, his throat hoarse, and Dream wasn’t going to let up. Still he continues, to rant, pressing forward as the emotion in his tone began to surface.

“I never cared about any of the war, the fighting, the bullshit titles. I ran alongside Quackity because he asked me to and I thought it was funny, and then I never came to work. When people asked me what side I was on, Pogtopia or Manburg, I feigned ignorance. _I. Don’t. Care._ I never did, not for any of this. I just wanted to be a team. That’s all. Because when your best friend is a God, how the _fuck_ are you supposed to care about titles? None of it means anything, at the end of the day, it’s all up to you. And _you_ decided we aren’t worth it. _You_ decided that we’re useless to you.”

Dream’s mouth is agape, his eyes squinted, the spot between his eyebrows creased.

“No.”

So that’s how it’s going to be.

“Dream, you need to understand something.”

“I’m not––”

“Eret’s betrayed you before.”

“So have you.”

“Sapnap and I are done.”

“You aren’t––”

“Dream. Whatever business you have with Tommy isn’t worth it.”

“You literally have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“Dream.”

George’s eyes are stern, even as they well with emotion, and even under layers of rage he can feel Dream start to melt.

“Why do you even care about Tommy?” Dream asks.

George huffs a humourless laugh through his nose. “I couldn’t care less if Tommy died tomorrow.”

“Yikes.”

“You might get him to follow you. You might even get him to like it. You can set it up so that his entire world revolves around you, and he can be the perfect soldier for your one-man army.” George swipes a shivering hand underneath his nose, his eyes locked on Dream’s. “But it’ll never be the same. You’ve driven every person who cares away. You’re the God of Nothing, Dream, and it’s only a matter of time before it catches up to you.”

Dream scoffs, and now George can actually see Dream’s eyes as he rolls them.

“I thought you hated dramatic monologues,” Dream mutters, with a slightly awkward chuckle underlying his tone.

“Schlatt had no one, Dream. You were there when he died, I think. Quackity told me he was surrounded by people. But he still died alone. Do you really want that?”

“I’m not gonna die, George.”

“Okay, but that’s worse.”

Awkward quiet sits between the two for a moment too long, and George watches Dream’s eyes begin to soften. It doesn’t excuse Dream’s words, no, but––nonetheless, George’s heart stops racing just a tad. It’s a pavlovian response, at this point: when Dream’s content, the tension in his shoulders dissolves, and he swipes his hands over his teary eyes, poorly disguising the motion with a yawn.

“I can’t believe you just told me to die already. That’s so rude.”

The joke is ill-placed, but at least it cuts through the silence. George gives a small, ingenuine chuckle, and stands.

Dream looks up at him, a tense, stilted, smile on his face, before pushing himself to his feet too.

George breaks their eye contact to look into New L’Manburg, the height of the wall he stood atop starting to get to him as the night wears on, cold air chilling him through his thin clothes. The nation looks peaceful for a site of such constant conflict, warm lamps lighting and gently heating the streets. 

George’s smile falls. “Dream,” he breathes, turning back to the taller, “you did this. All of this. I hope it was worth it.”

Dream purses his lips. “Me too.”

“I’ve got to go home now.”

“The sun’s rising soon,” Dream comments, gesturing to the handheld clock George grips.

“You should get back to Tommy, then?”

“...Yeah.”

“Hm.”

As George turns to go, preparing to watch Dream disappear into the night for the last time in a long time, he feels arms wrap around his shoulders, a head resting on top of his. He doesn’t reciprocate, but he leans into it nonetheless. It’s nice, if not incredibly awkward, bittersweet in more ways than one.

“That’s for Sapnap too,” Dream murmurs, giving him a final squeeze before releasing. 

George watches as Dream fastens his mask again.

George drops his goggles back over his eyes.

The tears don’t come until he’s safe in his own bed.

**Author's Note:**

> the way that i wrote this in two days because i couldnt think about anything else
> 
> anyways i know smp tommy's pov is interesting but all i think about in that server is George and Quackity so here's somth from George's pov bc i havent done anything like that yet
> 
> Also here's my SMP Quackity playlist for no particular reason https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4krkw1YcEK3HRjVxYC8fAi?si=InODjkBJQzOiKYmoec54ow


End file.
